


Conclusions of the Insane

by ivanolix



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dream Sex, F/M, Porn, Season/Series 03, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanolix/pseuds/ivanolix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can’t even have a straightforward sex dream anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conclusions of the Insane

She can’t even have a straightforward sex dream anymore.

Kara’s not picky about the fantasy subject or setting, since if she can just get off then it might stop her itching long enough for her to wake up and fly, think out in the black. Lingering arousal is a danger she can’t handle now. And in her dreams, all hands feel alike, running up her body in that pitch-perfect way that can only be imagination, but can only be the good kind as well. She can devour the pleasure and not worry about what it means (nothing).

This one starts with a bucket of white paint and a brush she flings to the ground, though, feet covered in it, her hands doing the moving at the start, with swirling red and blue and yellow biting at the back of her eyes—it can only get disastrous from there.

Leoben’s starred in a dozen nightmares since New Caprica, all empty and cold, topped by a sharp pain that she can never tell is from his crazed gaze on her or from the way she’s stabbing her own heart. In the dreams, fault is hazily determined.

This one’s not cold and it doesn’t hurt, and the way her breath catches in her throat feels fresh and too right. But when his voice sounds against her ear and her belly leaps in hot recognition, she can’t focus on that, and her fingers get lost in the paint. Lust in these dreams is too simple for Leoben.

He turns her against her wall, and she doesn’t give in at first, feeling his hands at her waist and her breasts. Back pressed against the smeared paint, her mind hasn’t turned off the memories yet her body screams back to be silent.

The way Leoben looks into her eyes, it’s like he knows. The desire, the self-satisfaction, the understanding of how she can’t just embrace that she wants him in her dreams—because even that’s too much. So he kisses her before she decides, and his lips crush against hers so she can’t catch a breath. No breathing, no thinking, and it should be good, and her hands shouldn’t be flailing for something.

His tongue in her mouth, hands strongly cupping her breasts and wrists, his hips pushed against her waist and brushing where she burns and swells, all of it as overwhelming as the thought that tells her to get out. Get out of this dream before Leoben earns something that he doesn’t deserve, a fantasy of hers that goes simply and without his death. But his tongue scrapes hotly down her neck, and she gasps and needs more.

Kara pulls at his shoulders, bringing him closer, letting him rip her shirt and spread paint across her body, the cold of it lasting just long enough to make her tremble with rippling sensation. She’s lurching, falling into him, a lake of passion that swirls around her, satisfying and terrifying and more powerful than any one emotion should be. They fall to the floor.

Leoben’s mouth tastes her body, and her heart pounds. Lips, neck, breasts, and she reaches for his shoulders to make sure he doesn’t pull away. He kisses her again, too slow to be too fast, too deeply to be too teasing, too entirely for her to feel that it’s not her surrender she’s giving. Her eyes roll up in her head as he suckles at her nipple, his erection pressing between her legs as he lies on top of her, but then her gaze flashes to the wall.

He feels so good against her, but the wall is glowing, shining, floating free of the paint she added, a solid symbol of her godsfrakking destiny. She needs Leoben inside her, needs the thrusts and the moans and the crash-and-burn of release, but her mind refuses to accept this as fantasy. The world will not get her playing with destiny so easily, no matter how the dream begs her acceptance of everything as fair game in a perfectly imaginary frak.

Brow tense as her body aches and screams for more, she closes her eyes tight and says no.

The dream ends, and she’s a sweaty mess in a bunk, pulse still charging through her body and making her twitch. Life keeps stabbing her in the back every which way she turns, and she can’t even enjoy a simple sex dream anymore.


End file.
